How to Marry a Marquess (Wedded by Scandal 3)

She swallowed her protest and allowed him to leave the room. He closed the door with a decisive snick.

Her mother started to wield her silk fan with enthusiasm. “I will summon your father. Lord Westfall will do the honorable thing after your father speaks with him.”

“Mamma, please, it was only a fleeting kiss,” Evie said, blushing furiously. “I am certain our lips did not touch.” It was so mortifying to be caught in such an illicit embrace with Richard. “I will not have Rich…Lord Westfall pressured into marriage for a brotherly embrace that lasted but a few seconds.”

Her mother folded her fan with a snap and glared at her. “Do not be silly. He is now in line for the dukedom. He is eminently suitable to be pressured.”

“Oh, Mamma.” Evie sighed. “A few weeks ago you forbade our friendship, and now you wish for us to marry?”

“Several weeks past he was not the Marquess of Westfall. Do not be obtuse, my dear.”

Evie rubbed her temple, hoping to ease the throb she could feel forming. “He does not have the time or temperament for any inconsequential distractions now. He has a daughter, and he must locate her at once. Any meddling with this process with a ridiculous demand for him to declare any intentions toward me would be unconscionable.” Her admittance to her mother was an acknowledgment how much Richard’s revelation had unsettled Evie.

Her mother paled. “He has a bastard?”

Evie flinched. “Do not refer to her in such a degrading manner. It is unbecoming, Mamma.”

Her mother visibly composed herself. “Upon my word, he cannot be thinking to claim her?”

A sudden fierce pride burst inside her chest, though it warred just as strongly with anxiety. Life would not be kind to his daughter if he tried to raise her within their society. She would be a pariah. Never to experience the joy of attending balls, routs, and musicales. She would always be a curious bug under the searing reproachful gaze of society. “He is, Mamma.”

“If he does, I most assuredly will no longer invite him to our balls and house parties. How can Lord Westfall think to taint his estimable family name with such an undesirable connection? He is the future Duke of Salop and surely must see how ill-judged such a decision would be!”

Dear Lord. “Mamma, please—”

A whisper in the air alerted Evie, and she glanced up. Richard was frozen in the doorway, his eyes hard chips of ice. Her heart sang in elation that he had returned, then sank at an alarming rate at the cold fury darkening his gaze. Surely he did not believe she would share her mother’s sentiments?

“You are being unfeeling, Mamma.”

“A continued friendship will not advance this family if he claims his bastard,” the countess said, unaware Richard was behind her.

Unable to hold her silence, she stepped around her mother toward him. “Please forgive Mamma, my lord. She… I have no excuse,” she said.

His eyes as they pierced her mother were so cold that discomfort twisted through Evie. Without acknowledging her mother’s harsh words, he turned and walked away, leaving the door ajar. She had the sudden impression her mother had made an enemy, and their friendship had suffered a blow.

Oh, Richard.

Chapter Three

1818, Present day…

Mayfair, London

“There now, that is just right,” Emily Rose Maitland said, a pleased smile curving her lips. Eyes a perfect golden replica of Richard’s glowed with happiness. Tilting her head to his hovering valet, she grinned. “Ain’t it perfect, Mr. Colby?” his daughter asked, tugging at the mess she had made of the cravat. His valet scowled, no doubt wanting to chuck her from the chambers so he could complete the finishing touches of Richard’s evening attire.

“I wish to be at this ball, Papa. Are you sure little girls cannot go?” she queried, her eyes hopeful but so alive with merriment.

Acting quickly, he grabbed her and tossed her into the air, enjoying her fake squeal of terror and chortling. It was a little over two years since he’d found her in the heart of London, in one of the nastier and most dangerous areas—St. Giles. That was the first time he had been truly grateful for the exacting and ruthless skills he had acquired from scouting for the army. The baby farm had sold her to men who routinely hunted for the most vulnerable children of society and pressed them to work as pickpockets, chimneysweepers, and even in brothels. It had taken him a few weeks to find her, and he had been relentless in his search, threatening many and hurting several men before he’d found her in a hovel, huddled with several more children, thin blankets attempting to cover thinner shoulders.

He lowered her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, I am certain.”

She pouted prettily. “Will you miss me?”

“Always.”

Her face lit with pleasure. “I’ll wait up for you.”

He arched a brow. “You’ll be in bed by nine.”